


Bodies in the Bright Grass

by Misterkingdom



Series: How Mercy Looks From Here [6]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Child Abuse, Earth-3, Enemies to Friends, M/M, Mirror Universe, Obsession, Rough Sex, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, Voyeurism, there is sex in here but it's not underage sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 13:49:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15887310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misterkingdom/pseuds/Misterkingdom
Summary: *"I'm Owlman's son—his real son and you're nothing, Grayson." The boy says before smirking. "Now that I'm here, he doesn't need a surrogate. Give up the mantle of Talon and I might not follow you home and slit your throat."*A look into Dick and Damian's complicated relationship.





	Bodies in the Bright Grass

**Author's Note:**

> You should read the other parts of the series first but if you don't want to do that, at least try to read **[THE FIRST PART](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1740950/chapters/3716798)**

* 

Bodies lie in the bright grass.  

And some are murdered.  

And some are picnicking.   

-Jenny Holzer,  _The_   _Survival Series_   

* 

 Part One: 

Bedlam 

The boy is a fun-sized Bruce Wayne, except he has honey brown skin instead of pearl white and his eyes are as gray as a stainless-steel scalpel and just as sharp as one. He is waist high and ribbon thin. He is wearing a doom black catsuit with a too big, beat up leather jacket over it and combat boots. His hair is as black as his clothes. Its short and combed back, with the bangs spiked up in the front. He has a rust colored, crescent moon of a bruise framing his right eye.  

He is sitting at the end of Wayne manor’s humorously long dining table on the opposite side of the room from Dick—which is good, because the boy looks as if he's seconds away from tearing him apart. He radiates a menace he shouldn’t be able to convey for someone who looks ten at best.  

Dick shrugs off the weirdness of finding a random child in the dining room of Wayne manor and grabs the bottle of wine he'd been looking for. He tosses it in the air and catches it, before turning to watch the kid. He should say something.  

“Hi. Name's Dick. What's yours?" Dick asks. The boy narrows his eyes. Dick takes a seat across from him. "Okay, let's try this: Who are you and what are you doing here?" 

"I have more of a right to be here than you, imposter."  

"Imposter?"  

"I'm Owlman's son—his real son and you're nothing, Grayson." The boy says before smirking. "Now that I'm here, he doesn't need a surrogate. Give up the mantle of Talon and I might not follow you home and slit your throat."  

"Okay, I'm lost, but that sounded like a threat. I don't like threats. They make me feel icky."  

The boy frowns. "This is your final warning."  

"Not fair. I didn't get a first." Dick says. The boy tightens his fingers around the handle of dull steak knife.  

"It's nice to see you two getting along." Alfred says as he walks into the dining room with a glass covered plate. He sits it down in front of the strange boy and makes to leave the dining room. Dick catches him by his elbow as he passes.  

"Mind explaining what's going on?" Dick asks.  

Alfred Pennyworth’s face is a rippled pond of wrinkles when he smiles. "Why, this is Damian al Ghul. From now on he'll be staying at Wayne manor."  

"He says he's Owlman's son, Alfie. Is that possible?"  

"It's always possible, Master Richard. I take it I didn't explain the birds and the bees to you correctly."  

"Why didn't I know about him?"  

"There are a lot of things you don't know about Master Bruce." Alfred says—cryptic old bastard. He's the only one who calls Owlman by his given name. He has been doing it for as long as Dick’s known him, but it still sounds unnatural and raw in Dick's ears.  

"Does Tim know about this?"  

"Of course. Who do you think gave young Damian the wallop on his right eye?" Alfred says as he shakes Dick's grip loose before leaving the dining room. 

“He got lucky.” Damian says as he stabs his fork through a thick piece of meat on his plate. 

“Knowing Tim, you were the one who got lucky, kid.” Dick says, pushing away from the table and getting up. The boy’s tempest grey gaze follows him as Dick leaves the dining room.  

Dick drains a fifth of the wine he’d stolen when he gets in his car. His stomach clenches. What does the child’s arrival mean for Tim? And most importantly, for Dick?  

 

* 

Dick's hand closes around Damian's throat. He's been Talon too long to let some kid get the jump on him. From the tiny shatter of his kitchen window being broken into and the soft squeak of boots across the grimy linoleum, to the whisper of his bedroom door being opened—he knew the boy was coming. The kid probably thought he was being oh so sneaky. Well, he would've been if Dick hadn't been trained. To people like Dick—to assassins—Damian was as quiet as a drunk elephant.  

"Well, hello there, amigo." Dick says as he sits up in bed, taking the small boy with him. He tightens his grip hard enough that Damian’s voice becomes trapped in his throat, the thud of his pulse quickens under Dick’s dry fingers. His neck is tiny and delicate in Dick’s hand. Damian has to straddle Dick's knees as he wraps his fingers around Dick's wrist. In one hand, he's still clutching a shiny, eleven-inch dagger that plays with the moonlight. Dick glances at it before meeting Damian's eyes. "Is that for me? You shouldn't have."  

Dick pushes Damian off the bed, the kid lands on his back with a hard thud against the cherry wood flooring. The dagger scatters under a dresser while Dick places his foot on the boy's neck, pinning him to the ground. He presses down hard enough for Damian to flinch in pain before easing up.  

"So, I take it you have beef with me.” Dick says.   

"Fuck you." Damian grits out. Dick leans over and turns on his lamp, flooding the dark room with yellow light. Damian is glaring razors up at him but it's the trail of dried blood leading from his purple split lip to his chin catches Dick's attention.  

"Looks like you paid Tim a visit as well. Mean right hook, right?" Dick asks. Damian answers with silence so it must be true. "You know, if you can't take Tim, you definitely can't take me."  

No offense to Tim, because Tim is formidable—even going so far as to break Dick’s arm, which the kid paid for—but one of the only people who could even come close to Dick in combat skills was Jason. 

Dick leans down, careful not to snap the kid's neck like a twig, until he removes the Desert Eagle from the holster on Damian's belt.  

"Nice." Dick says as he cocks it. He removes his foot from Damian's neck before kneeling on one knee. He places the silencer endowed barrel of the gun against the middle of the boy's head. The kid freezes, his cold expression melting away to be replaced by one of childish fear. "You ever shot this thing? You're so tiny the recoil will probably blow you away...Not to mention if I pulled the trigger. The force will probably decimate your whole fucking face. It'll be like a bomb went off there. Your head would be nothing but a crater."  

Damian swallows as shiny sweat collects on his face. Dick digs the gun deeper against Damian's face, hard enough to leave a Bindi of a bruise there. The boy clenches his eyes shut. 

"Look at me." Dick says. The boy takes a deep breath and does so. His eyes are still sharp and angry, breaking through the fear which surprises Dick. "Say sorry or I'll blow your goddamn head off."  

“...Sorry.” Damian knows when he's beaten. Smart kid.  

"Apology accepted." Dick says as he points the gun at the ceiling. "Never go toe to toe with me, kid. You’ll always blink before I do.” 

The kid gets to his feet and glares at Dick—there was a respect in his gaze that wasn't there when they'd met in the dining room. They stare at each other like they’re in a wild west showdown before Damian dashes out of the room, all but diving out of the broken kitchen window. Dick follows until he gets to the kitchen and surveys his smashed window. It’s going to be a bitch to fix. He places the gun in the silverware drawer before getting to work patching it.  

After, he looks at the singular message on his cellphone. It's from Tim.   

 _Damian attacked me. He's an amateur but he plays dirty. He's coming for you next._  

 _Thanks for the head's up, but you could've called, you know. Little creep tried to sneak up on me._  

 _Did he hurt you?_  

 _Not even close._  

 _Good, because I'd kill him if he did._  

 

* 

Dick’s in the Owlcave three days later. It’s devoid of all life—even the owls infesting the place are cemetery silent. It’s dark—the huge screens on the command console sitting in the middle of the cave are all dead. Winter winds leaks in from the cracks as Dick wanders through Owlman’s lair. He whistles into the abyss and it whistles back. 

Dick checks his watch—he is on time. Where was his master?  

Someone’s arm wraps around his throat. His legs are kicked from under him. Dick bashes his head on the concrete as his vision swims. His attacker straddles him, but Dick punches him in the ribs, sending him to the floor beside him, knocking an echoing gasp from the mysterious assailant.  

Damian gets up and Dick’s stomach sinks. The boy is wearing a dark silver tunic running down to his thighs with a matching mask that has white lenses. The outfit has a black trim with matching boots climbing up his knees. His cape is midnight, complimenting his gloves and tactical belt which is adorned with the owl empire symbol.   

It’s Jason’s old Talon armor. It fits the kid like a glove, which is weird because Jason was taller than Damian at that age—which Dick had found out was indeed ten. The kid must’ve had some mad sewing skills unless… 

Owlman comes out of the shadows to stand beside Damian. Dick’s mouth is filled with a ton of questions but the only thing he can force out is: 

“That’s Jason’s armor.” Dick gets up from the floor. He shouldn’t bring up Jason. Jason’s a traitor. A long dead traitor. Owlman made sure of that.  

"So?" Owlman asks flatly.  

"Nothing. Looks good, kid." Dick says. “A little early for Halloween, though.”  

"Don't patronize me or I'll break your face." 

"You're taking him with you tonight." Owlman says.  

"Do you think he's ready?" Dick asks.  

"I don't need a chaperone. Especially him." Damian says.  

"You do. You tried to kill him and Timothy. You’ve failed. Twice.” 

"You sent him to kill me?"  

"No. I'm just disappointed he didn't." Owlman says before putting on a rare smile. "Don't take it the wrong way. He's been trained since birth for this and he still failed.” 

Dick pushes down the stinging in his heart. "I don't appreciate people playing with my life...sir."  

"You survived. I'm proud of you." Owlman says. Dick pathetically is both horrified and happy at the compliment(?) "But he still has to prove himself."  

"There is nothing he can teach me! Look at him! He looks like a fucking queer!” 

Owlman backhands Damian hard enough for the kid to stumble back and clutch his mouth. His tooth must've ripped into his lip, because there was a stark red, thin line of blood running down his chin. His eyes are already glassy—Dick wanted to warn him that crying only makes Owlman angrier.  

Dick comes to stand inches away from Owlman to distract him from Damian. Why does he care?  

"Damian, go wait in the garage." Dick says. Damian narrows his eyes and Dick thinks he's about to defy him but the kid storms off anyway, furiously wiping at his face. Dick turns to watch Owlman, only seeing his own wan reflection in his master's goggles. Owlman watches him for a second too long before going to sit in the chair in front of the command console. The screens all blink on at once, as if they were enchanted. There are different, surveillances set up around the city, splashing the screens with famine, war, pestilence, and death. Owlman watches all of it with no emotion, like he was the god Ares himself.  

Dick tries not to rock on his heels as he waits to be dismissed. He drifts numbly in his own head until Owlman turns around in his chair.  

"Come here." Owlman says. Dick crosses the short distance and stands in front of his master. Owlman motions to a space on the concrete to the right side of his chair. Dick gets the idea and sits beside his master on the floor. He draws his knees up to his chest like he did when he was a child before wrapping his arms around them. He stares into the hazy place between dreams and reality. He flinches when Owlman's mechanical talons tangle in his hair and combs down gently until he cups the back of his neck. Dick shivers as the talons close around his throat, Dick's breath shudders—he knows this is meant to be sweet, but it's mostly predatory and a little possessive. It doesn't mean a thing that Dick is fucked up enough to love it.  

Dick presses his face against Owlman's side and clings to his pants leg. Owlman goes back to stroking his hair.  

They stay like that, with Owlman’s razor point Talons combing through Dick’s tangled hair, until Dick closes his eyes. He doesn’t know how long it was before Owlman speaks: “From now on, you are to train Damian. If he should fail, it’ll reflect badly on you and you will be punished. Do you understand?”  

“...Yes, sir. But—” 

“You’re dismissed.” Owlman swivels his chair until he’s back facing the screens. Dick sighs before getting to his feet. He glances at the elevator to the locker room. Damian is there, watching him with utter contempt. He pushes past the kid when he refuses to move. They take the elevator up in silence until they get to the grimy hallway leading to the locker room.  

"You're disgusting." Damian says as he matches Dick stride—he never takes his eyes off the path in front of them. 

"You don't know anything about me, you little creep." Dick says as they enter the locker room.  

"How long have you wanted to fuck him, pervert?"  

"Fuck off." 

“I’m not stupid. I know he likes men.” Damian says. “His…perversion makes you think you have a chance with him. You don't. He’ll never want you, Grayson. You're a nobody. The only thing you have is the mantle and soon it'll be mine. I’m going to take everything you are.” 

 _“I’m gonna take everything you are, Dickie.”_  

Dick takes a deep breath when he strips off his clothes and starts the process of changing into his Talon uniform. He’s sketched in heavy shadow under the stark, white, flinching light of the locker room, as he stares at the man in the mirror. He turns his attention to Damian who is watching him with his usual distain and a little confusion.  

"Don't interfere again." Damian says.  

"What?"  

"I know you told me to go to the garage so father wouldn't hit me again. I don't need your help. I was handling it.” 

“Yeah, you looked totally in control, what with all the water works, kid.” 

Damian kicks him in his stomach, sending his back crashing into the mirror. The breaking of the glass sounds like a clean snap of bone. There is a sharp point pressing into his Adam's apple. The boy had pulled a sword out of nowhere. He glares up at Dick. Dick tilts his head back to get away from the instrument of death.  

“I can take it."  

"You shouldn't have to." Dick says before he could stop himself. That renders the boy quiet as Dick smacks the sword away, but it doesn't escape the boy's grasp.  

Dick turns back to the mirror—it’s probably not a good idea to turn your back on a miniature psychopath with a sword—which now has a lightning bolt of a crack running through it. He pulls on his mask before watching Damian's reflection in the mirror. The boy is glaring down at the tiles. 

“Get in the car." Dick says. "Now."  

The boy slowly sheathes his sword. He storms off in a way that Dick is rapidly becoming accustomed to.   

 

* 

While Gotham cowers before Dick, it pisses itself in fear before Damian. The boy swings, flips, and slices his way through diseased alleyways, dark buildings, and cluttered rooftops. He looks at home in the fog smudged night. He's fucking terrifying with a sword and Dick suspects if Damian had come at him in his bedroom with the katana instead of the dagger, things might've turned out differently.  

The kid is already better than him when he was that age. He tries not to frown when Damian leaps across the negative space between two ten story buildings and lands in a perfect dive roll on a slick rooftop, while Dick stumbles and almost twists his ankle. His stomach sinks in something akin to jealousy—he could feel Owlman slipping away from him. 

Still, he steers them away from any real trouble—ignoring their objections (shakedowns and an assassination) in favor of roaming around the city. He doesn’t think Damian notices, because the kid is busy smiling psychotically at everything, like he's never seen the outside before, like he spent his whole life in a cage.  

They skid dangerously close to the edge of a building. They stop, overlooking the black river Gotham harbor. Streetlights break into yellow shards on the dark water as tiny jewels of red lights from the far-off bridge blink in unison. The fall winds cut their faces and Dick takes a deep breath before stretching out on the rooftop of a defunct cannery and looking up into the empty skies—the stars kept at bay by the artificial halo of the city.  

Damian breaks the sky, coming into his view and staring down at him as if he were in a trance. He clutches his sword in one hand. 

“Don’t even try it.” Dick says. 

“I wasn’t.” Damian says as he kneels and studies Dick’s face.  

“Good, because if I break a couple of your ribs, Owlman will kill me.” Dick yawns. “So, I’m coaching you. We should get to know each other—” 

“You’re Richard John Grayson. Twenty-six. Proficient in Brazilian jiu-jitsu, karate, boxing, kickboxing, and gymnastics. I don’t care about the sob story that led you to be adopted by father. All I care about is what you can do.”  

“Okay. Creepy, but I was talking more about you.”  

“My past doesn’t matter.”  

“Humor me.”  

Damian sighs before sitting cross legged next to him. He stares over the harbour. “Father fucked a whore and had me for the express purpose of creating a healthy heir. I was trained by my grandfather at his behest. Owlman came for me a week ago and now I’m here.”  

“What a way to talk about your mom.”  

“Well she’s not actually a whore. She just acts like one. She was paid a lot of money to have me.”  

“Hm. Well, what do you do for fun?”  

Damian frowns. “What’s our mission, Grayson?”  

“Well, right now it’s to chill until we get further orders.”  

“When does my training start?”  

“Just relax, okay? We’ll get there.”  

Damian lays down next to him until their elbows are touching. They stay on the roof until the pinks and blues of morning paint the skyline over the old bones of buildings in Gotham. He glances over at Damian, who now has his back turned to him, curled up on his side with his knees pressed to his stomach. His chest rises slowly, obviously in a deep sleep.  

Dick picks him up and the boy doesn't stir, even when Dick leaps to the alleyway. He stops at the car and cradles him a little too long. It releases the pressure in his chest. It’s like when Jason used to—Dick’s stomach sinks as he deposits the kid in the passenger’s seat. He drives back to the mansion and goes through one of the side doors, not wanting to run into Owlman, Tim, or Alfred while carrying the boy like this—they both could get in trouble. There’s no room for weakness in the Owl empire.  

He places the kid in the bed of one of the many guest rooms before leaving out of the window.  

 

* 

The training is fierce, in a reflection of how Owlman trained Dick—the difference is Dick doesn’t institute punishments for a missed swing, or a poorly timed kick, or biting. He instead finds ice cream, pizza, and cartoon bingeing downtime is a better motivator—judging by the way the boy stopped looking at Dick like he wanted to light him on fire. 

The other difference is Dick feels bad about how many times his fist lands on Damian’s little face, while Owlman had no qualms about breaking Dick’s jaw when Dick was Damian’s age.  

The kid is a fast learner, and breaks Dick’s nose after three months of training. Damian apologizes without even a push from anyone and only gloats a little. It’s a nice surprise. Dick tells the kid not to worry about it and the bend he’ll probably have when the splint comes off. Besides, he tells Damian about the new lavender bruise he’s going to be sporting for a while, purple is my color.  

They seem to be getting along great until Dick calls him Jason.  

 

* 

"Fight me." Damian demands as he blocks Dick's entrance to the bar in Wayne manor. Owlman doesn't allow him to drink in the house—of all things he has to be a dad about, it’s that—but his master has been missing for a week and Alfie always stocks the bar with the best beer, so he decides to risk it.  

"What are you doing in the bar?" Dick asks. The fun-sized psychopath doesn't smell like alcohol.  

"Waiting for you. I knew it was a matter of time before you indulged your pathetic vices." 

"That's fair." Dick says—why is the child being so hostile? The last few months he’d been warm towards Dick, even calling him by his first name. "I'm not in the mood to spar, kiddo. Go find Tim."  

"I didn't say spar, Grayson. I said fight."  

"No.” 

“Hurt me or I'll hurt you.” 

“Move."  

"Make me." Damian says as he pushes at Dick's chest. Even with all his strength, the tiny kid has no chance of moving Dick if Dick didn't want to be moved. 

"Don't push me."  

"Or what?" Damian pushes him again. Dick feels irritation rising inside him. The child always had a way of getting under his skin. It's like it he had a part time job as Satan's spawn. Dick decides to walk away before he breaks the kid’s hands. He is not in the mood to handle Damian’s emotional roller coaster sober.  

Damian is fast as he blocks Dick's way again before punching him, hard, right in the middle of his stomach—which the boy knows is still bruised from last night's dust up with Deathstroke from the group Justice Underground. Dick hisses and grips his midsection as a feral grin grows on Damian's face.  

Dick grips Damian's hair and pulls him until they're almost face to face. He tightens his grip as Damian wraps his hands around Dick's wrist. Damian grits his teeth in pain.  

"What is wrong with you? Why are you acting this way?" Dick asks. Damian growls low in his throat like a wild animal and tries to wrench himself out of Dick's grasp. Dick lets go of his hair and shoves him to the far wall, hard enough for a painting to fall off it and shatter on the floor. He wraps his fingers around the boy's fragile, thin neck and squeezes just hard enough to remind the boy of how little control he has in the hands of a man Dick's size and skill set. He needs to be humbled,  _tamed_ , and Dick's starting to think he should be the one to do it.   

Dick places his free hand on the wall above Damian's head, not removing his other hand from the boy's throat. He hunches down, crowding the boy until they're almost eye to eye. Damian tries to kick him but he's too short, so he settles for thrashing wildly until he tires himself out and goes as still as a statue. He stares up at Dick with fog grey eyes and a toothy, dagger sharp smirk.  

 "You like this? Is that it?"  

"Yeah." Damian grits out. "I like it from you. You’re worthy, Richard Grayson." 

“You got issues, kid. Don’t touch me again, or I will break both your arms, you hear me?” Dick lets Damian go. “Go to your room.”  

Damian rubs his throat, watching Dick with...what? Longing? Can’t be. The kid tears his glance away as he walks in a direction that is not the path to his room.  

 

* 

The weeks of Owlman’s self-imposed exile bleed into months and Dick seems to be the only one that notices, though much later than he cares for, Damian smugly tells him he, Tim, and Alfred all knew Owlman was somewhere in Algeria, visiting Damian’s mother—hopefully  _not_  to make another Damian. Dick wishes they’d told him, but ever since he moved out, no one tells him anything anymore.  

He sets up in Owlman’s room and secretly spends his time going through his master’s belongings and trying to crack the codes on the safe where Owlman keeps psychological files on all his ‘children.’ Dick would love to know what the man thinks of him, and if Owlman thought he had low self-esteem like Tim’s psychological files states he did—really, what fourteen-year-old keeps files on the people in his life? 

Dick realizes on the umpteenth try the safe won’t give up the ghost. He decides to masturbate in Owlman’s bed as a recourse, coming on the expensive sheets to the ghost of his master’s smell.  

He’s still unfulfilled, so he steals a $1,595 Rolex watch from Owlman’s jewelry box—the man has so many pieces he won’t miss it. Dick’s not going to sell it, he just wants to hold onto something tangible of the man—hell, maybe he  _does_  have low self-esteem.  

Damian is like two people—one minute he’s curled up against him while they’re watching television, the next he’s arguing with him and pushing him. Sometimes they end up roughhousing when Damian gets too mouthy for his liking. Dick often has to immobilize him by putting him in headlocks, pushing him to the floor, bending his limbs until he gives up. He’s rougher with Damian than he ever was with Jason or Tim.  

Dick starts ignoring Damian around month three of Owlman’s absence, after a blow up at the kid’s eleventh birthday party surprise Dick sprung on him. Which is why, he guesses, after three days of the silent treatment, he goes into Owlman's room to find Damian sitting in an arm chair across from the bed. It's black in the room the only light is from the hallway where he just entered.  

Dick turns on the light and goes to settle in the bed. He opens a book he'd been reading ( _Lolita_ , one of Alfred's favorites. It's gross and engrossing at the same time) since there had been no orders from Owlman. After ten minutes of silence, Damian comes over and knocks the book out of Dick's hands hard enough for it to hit the window and crack the glass. The boy straddles Dick's midsection and traps Dick's wrist against the pillows.  

"Stop ignoring me!" Damian shouts petulantly.  

"Stop acting like a dick." Dick says. "What’s gotten into you lately? Is it because Owlman’s gone?”  

“No.” Damian says as he lets go of Dick’s wrist and crosses his arms. “It’s because of you, Grayson! You’re infuriating, and I like you and-and I want to hate you! You’re my rival!” 

“Still?”  

“You’re Talon and that mantle belongs to me! I’m Owlman’s son.”  

“The job is not inherited and trust me, Ja-Damian,” Dick hopes the kid didn’t catch that half-misstep. “If I could just give it up, I would. In a heartbeat. In fact, I did, until...you know what? Maybe I’ll tell you one day. But today? I have a book to read.”  

Damian looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He just gets off Dick and lays beside him, in a way Dick has become accustomed to since last month, when the boy started sneaking in his bed. After a few minutes, Damian goes and retrieves the book, before draping it across Dick’s chest.  

“So…you want to be big spoon or little spoon?” Damian asks shyly, after Dick yawns. He’s mirroring a question Dick has asked him last week. “Too late! Dibs on little spoon.”  

Later, they roam the snow dusted, _Shining_ -esque hedge maze behind Wayne Manor with Dick showing Damian the place where he used to hide his playboy magazines. The kid smiles and hugs him around his chest. Dick uses that moment to betray the boy by stuffing a handful of ice down the back of Damian’s jacket.  

Damian strips the jacket off like it was on fire before using his lightning fast reflexes to scoop up snow and throw it in Dick’s face. Dick chuckles as he rubs the wet snow into his skin to the tune of Damian’s laughter. It’s a nice sound. Dick’s going to work on making him do it more.  

 

Part Two: 

The Heart is Deceitful 

Damian scales the rain wet fire escape stairs up to the window of Dick's apartment. They were supposed to meet this new upstart called Red Hood tonight—the Red Douche had been disrupting their shipments and killing all their people. He claims to fight for Justice Underground with all the other homos, but the man just seemed like a wannabe crime kingpin in disguise, with the way he butchers anyone who gets in his way. 

Damian tells himself he sought out Grayson earlier than he is supposed to because he’s bored. He tells himself he isn’t lying and it’s something else making his stomach flutter when he sees Dick’s dark brown eyes and his easy smile.  

After traveling through the night shrouded, hidden veins of alleyways, his eyes almost bleed when he peers into the bright light flooded window of the Talon’s living room. His vision is whited out as he waits for his eyes to adjust.  

Dick is naked and tangled up on the floor with some white-haired geezer with an eyepatch. His  ~~crush  brother partner ~~ ~~best friend~~   **rival**  is on his knees, his fingers twisting in the obviously 70s, lifted-from-a-thrift store white shag carpet while getting banged from behind.  

The old man has his fingers tangled in the long hair at the back of Dick’s head, forcing him to crane his neck and arch his back as the older man pounds into him. He grips Dick’s hips tight enough to bruise to stop him from escaping. Dick’s eyes are shut tight, his teeth worrying his dream pink lips.  

Damian freezes, his mouth hanging open. He grows hot all over, like he’s come down with a fever that feels mysteriously good. The summer breeze does nothing to cool the rising inferno inside him. He tightens his fist because he doesn’t know what to do with this new, drowning feeling, whatever it may be.  

He’s never watched pornography before, and if this is indeed lust he’s burdened with, why is he feeling it while watching his rival get fucked into the cheap carpet? 

He wills himself to leave but it’s like his legs are stuck in quicksand. The more he tries to go, the more he sinks to his knees. He swallows thickly, ashamed to admit he is dying to hear the noises leaking from Grayson’s mouth. He prays to whoever is listening that the window is unlocked. He’s in luck. He pries it open until a sliver of air condition blows through the opening. It’s like a bubble has been popped as Dick’s groans, whimpers, and the slapping of skin burst through the window.   

"Does your daddy know you're a whore?" The old man asks too calmly for how hard he's fucking the Talon. He curls his hand around the front of Dick’s throat, choking him as he slams Dick back until he fully took his cock. 

“Does the rest of the nursing home know you are?” Grayson groans out—always a smartass. The old man slams the side of Grayson’s face into the carpet. His rival claws at it as his lips fall open wordlessly. With Grayson’s head to the side, Damian has a clear view of the blissed out look on his face, before it becomes more pain than pleasure.  

The old man grips Grayson’s shoulder and shoves him back onto his cock. Dick shouts and reaches back to cup the geezer’s side as he meets the old man’s thrusts. He was getting louder—the nosier he gets, the faster Damian breathes, not sure what to do with this new…energy.  

“Slade, Slade, Slade.” Dick groaned softly, like a mantra. “Fuck me.”  

There was a buildup of excitement in Damian—like a glorious fight before a kill. His breath baited, as he shudders, growing too hot in the night breeze. He tilts his head against the cool glass, with his eyes closed, listening to the music of Dick’s wantonness. He doesn’t know how long he stayed there until he opened his eyes to see the old man coming on Dick's muscular torso as Talon sucks on his fingers, his black hair spread out against the white carpet like a halo.  

Damian is washed over by waves of disgust and envy as he balled his fingers up, though he still watches Dick and the old man suck face for far too long, until they finally disconnect and dress, trading barbs, making it sound like they hate each other. Dick pulls on black track pants while the old man dresses in an elaborate orange and black costume, adorned with five daggers, two desert eagles, and a pair of Katanas making an X on his back—wait. That’s the man who tried to turn him into a shish kebab a couple of months ago. He’s with the Justice Underground! The enemy of Owlman's and Ultraman's Crime Syndicate of America.  

Damian's chest tightens as his fingers turn to claws on the window. Is Dick a filthy traitor? How could he fuck the enemy? What if he were sharing secrets? They—Slade is coming toward the window. Damian hangs off the side of the balcony to avoid being seen.  

Slade steps out on to the fire escape and takes a deep breath before glancing back at Dick one last time. Grayson gives him a two-finger salute before the old man makes his way down the stairs of the fire escape and into the grime encrusted alleyway.  

When Damian climbs back over the railing, Dick's living room is empty. Damian glances at his watch—2100 hours. He’d been watching Dick fuck for exactly thirty-five minutes—it felt like ten. There is two hours to go before they were to meet the Red Hood on the other side of town.  

Damian should go back to the manor and report Grayson’s treachery—obviously the surest way to ensure his claim to Talon—but he finds himself climbing through the window and sitting on Dick’s couch with his knees against his chest, wrapping his arms around them and staring at the spot on the carpet where Dick probably had come. He ignores his mud-covered boots mucking up the baby blue sofa.  

He floats in his own mind, mulling over the fact that he had his first ‘awakening’ while watching his male rival get screwed. What does that say about him? Is he a homo? And what does it mean that he wants to cut “Slade’s” hand off for touching his things?  

He admits to himself he’d been thinking about what it would be like to kiss Grayson for a while now, though he never knew ‘the other thing’ is an option. That two men could have sex in that position—and enjoy it. That he probably could too, as long as it’s with Dick.   

The man haunting his thoughts walks out of the bathroom a half an hour later.  

Dick’s shoulder length, ink black hair was deflated, draping his face and spilling down to his prominent collar bones, and coursing past his sharp cheekbones. He’s a 5’11, lean cut of a man, with rolling muscles and strong arms and legs. The very picture of a gymnast. He was clad only in tight, charcoal colored boxer briefs, looking as if he’d walked off a cover of a men’s fitness magazine.  

Dick’s pale skin is a violent tapestry of his life as a Talon. Knots of pink scar tissue where he had dug bullets out of his skin. There’s a pale red, old serpentine cut looping across his stomach where someone had obviously tried to gut him. A rust colored splash leaking down his shoulder speaking of an acid burn. Purple clouds of bruises sail across his skin like little galaxies. There are faded, constellations of old track marks dotting across his left forearm.  

Dick’s beautiful, like a chipped statue of Adonis.  

“Oh, hey.” Dick says as his black coffee brown gaze lands on Damian. He’s probably used to having his privacy invaded. “How long have you been here?”  

“You should lock your windows, Grayson.” Damian says instead of confronting Dick about the Justice Underground lackey he’s screwing. “And close your curtains.”  

“I—did you see anything?”  

“I saw enough.”  

“Look, Damian. What you saw, well,” Dick’s blush is like rose petals scattering across his nose and cheeks. Damian tries not to think it’s cute but fails. “It’s...when two adults—” 

“I don’t care.” Damian says. “Let’s go.” 

Dick nods as guilt shows on his face—like he didn’t mean to ruin Damian’s innocence. Damian almost laughed because his innocence was ruined when grandfather stuck a dagger in his hand when he was four. That’s one thing he must admit he and Grayson had in common—stolen childhoods. 

Dick disappears into the bedroom. He comes out ten minutes later, in full Talon gear—a too tight, flexible, night-dark cat suit with a crimson owl across the chest. His hair in a messy bun, with bangs falling around his face, framing the sharp, black mask he wore with the death white lenses.  

Dick’s hair is...hot, but foolish, since it’s easy to grab in a fight, though Damian couldn’t stop himself from thinking how soft it would feel balled up in his fist.  

“Ready.” Dick says, breaking Damian out of his ogling. Damian follows him out of the window, eaten by things he wishes he didn’t know.  

 

* 

The Red Hood beats Dick by a couple of inches and must weigh about 230 pounds of sheer muscle. He’s wearing a tight, leather jacket the color of old blood over a bullet proof vest. He wears black pants leading down to a pair of jack boots, adorned with a dagger. His black leather hands are on his busy, tan, tactical belt, covered with two guns and three knives and of course, there’s the shell head of a red mask.   

The warehouse they’re in was basically a death trap, with skyscraper high ceilings, a maze of catwalks, and soggy, boarded up windows. They’re sticky with sweat as the summer night sweeps over Gotham. Only a trio of lamps left there by some other people cast a bile yellow glow.  

The Red Douche is smug, flirting with Dick—sometimes as if they’re old flames, and other times as if they’re bitter exes. Dick keeps up the banter like usual, but Damian could tell the Talon’s getting impatient. 

Somewhere in the middle of their conversation, the Red Hood had taken to staring at Damian unflinchingly. Even though the blood red mask is in a blank, frozen slate, Damian’s blood turns to ice water. He could feel volcanic hatred spilling out from the Justice Underground lackey.  

 “Another one?” Red Hood interrupts Dick in midsentence. The man’s voice is weighted down by the mechanical scrape of a voice modulator. “What, you got warehouses full of these little guys?”  

“Sure, sure.” Dick says. “Don’t worry about it. We’re here to make a deal, remember?”  

“Young, too young, but that’s the way your beloved boss likes it, huh? What happened to the other Talon? Spock?”  

Red Hood means Tim. 

 “He's screwing your mother.” Damian finally speaks.  

"Look at him! Isn't he just adorable? Like an unneutered chihuahua." Red Hood says cheerfully. Damian takes pride in reading his enemies’ energies and he can tell the Red Hood is mad as hell—though he’s doing a good job covering it.   

“Are we ever going to get back to business or should I just shoot you now?” Dick asks.  

“Where's your boss? I want to talk to the man in charge, not his errand boy and errand boy junior." Red Hood says. 

“You’re stuck with us because you’re small time, Red Douche.” Damian says.  

“What the kid said.” Dick nods toward Damian.  

"And what does that say about you, having to deal with insignificant me?" Red Hood counters. "Look, Talon—I'll cut the bullshit. I do want to see you. You're what this whole meeting is about. I've killed a lot of people to get us in this room together."  

"I'm flattered." Dick says. "But why?"  

“Because there’s no way around this: I’m killing Owlman. I’ve already gutted all of his lieutenants—all except for you, that is, which means I’m one step away from taking over his drug trade while you still breathe.”  

“I thought you worked for Justice Underground? When did they take an interest in narcotics?” Dick asks.  

“I never said I was with them. Owlman drew his own conclusions. He thinks he knows everything.”  

“Hm. Well this just got interesting.” Dick says.  

“Heh.” Red Hood crosses his arms. “It’s only a matter of time before Gotham is mine, so you’re going to work for me. You’re going to be  _my_  Talon. I’ll treat you better than Owlman ever did, because I’m not a mass murdering, sadistic, child molester.”  

Damian glances over at Dick. The Talon's face stays blank but his fist curls tighter. Red Hood is getting under his skin. “Attractive offer, but I’m gonna have to decline.”  

“You’re mistaken—"  

“No, I’m good, actually.”  

“No, I mean you’re mistaken if you think you have a choice. I’m not asking you to join me. I’m telling you.”    
 

“Oh really?” Damian asks sarcastically. It earns him another cold stare from Red Hood before the masked man looks back at Dick.  

“The only choice you have is how this will happen: You're either coming with me willingly or I'm taking you. The latter option involves a lot of pain, but trust me—the way I feel about you now? I'm kinda hoping you pick the second option."  

"Fuck that, Red Douche." Damian points his pistol at Red Hood—a thin, tall man with milk white skin and a bone straight curtain of red hair leaking out of a black trucker hat points a fantastical bow and arrow in the middle of Damian’s forehead. He’s dressed in a cherry red mask with a matching, latex cat suit with a bomber jacket over it. Where did he come from? 

"Hush, honey. The adults are talking." Red Hood says. “Leave Owlman. Join me willingly—and who knows, maybe you’ll find forgiveness.”  

Dick slowly pushes down the barrel of Damian’s gun with his finger, the picture of coolheaded-ness. His Talon training shines through. “Forgiveness? What are you, a Jehovah’s Witness?”  

“From some Talon—oh, I mean from someone you failed to save.” Red Hood is probably smirking underneath that gaudy mask of his. “…Dick.”  

“How do you know about Jason?” Dick’s voice shakes as Red Hood just stares at him, letting the silence stretch on long enough until Damian’s ready to shoot someone to make it all end. The wannabe crime boss is radiating lava hot rage as his fist tightened in the same ways Dick does when he gets angry but doesn’t want to show it.  

"Arsenal? Kill Junior. Send his head to Owlman." Red Hood commands to the man in red, never taking his eyes off Dick. "Don't touch tall, dark, and homicidal. He's mine."  

Red Hood slips a dagger out of his sleeve like he's playing a card trick. With the other hand, he quick draws a pistol from the holster of his tactical belt as he dives toward Dick, but the Talon kicks out his leg to trip Damian until Damian tumbles backwards over a crate and falls behind it. The thump of lightning fast arrows shakes the metal crate Damian hides behind but doesn't pierce through it. Dick had tripped Damian so he could take cover behind it. No matter how hard Damian tries, he'll never be as fast as Dick.  

Dick falls to the ground and the Red Hood is on top of him, straddling him and slicing down with surgical precision. Dick lifts his knee to kick him off as Red Hood flips the knife around until he's holding the blade. He hits Dick in the throat with the hilt—Damian's heart drops. Every instinct is telling him to rush over and help Dick but there is no way he could get anywhere near the Talon with that Robin Hood asshole’s arrows keeping him at him pinned down.  

The Red Hood mirrors Dick's every move until it becomes like a choreographed dance. He blocks every blow and Dick does the same to him. They can read each other like bad novels, predicting everything that comes next. 

"C'mon, old timer! You've gotten slow!" The Red Hood grunts out as he flips the dagger back around.  

"You know who I am!" Dick holds the Red Hood's arm up with his forearm as the crime boss bares down with the knife.  

"Yup! And I know everything you've done and everything you've  **failed**  to do!" The Red Hood says.  

"Who are you?!"  

"Your worst nightmare, Dickie!"  

Damian switches to a bigger gun and shoots. The man with the arrow is too quick, though the bullet skimmed his thigh. Damian pulls the trigger again before quickly glancing at Dick. Dick gets a lucky strike in and kicks the Red Hood up, giving Damian the perfect shot—Damian pulls the trigger and hits the Red Douche point blank in the temple, it only dents his mask but It sends him flying to the far wall. He goes limp, obviously just knocked out. 

Dick dives behind the crate with Damian before grinning at him, even though he’s visibly shaken and pale. "Nice shot." 

"You set me up for it." Damian grins back as the arrows stops.  

Dick presses a button on his glove. Two crates around the far wall go up in a bloom of fire. The warehouse is consumed by flames as bright as the sun as it threatens to swallow them.  

“Come on.” Dick takes Damian's hand in his and tugs—Red Hood jams the lip of his gun into Damian's cheek so hard that it pinches. Dick freezes. Damian growls. The wannabe crime boss was sitting directly next to him as the flames creep toward them.  

"We're not done yet." Red Hood says. “Dick, come with me or junior here will be a not-so-fond memory.” 

Dick grabs Damian by the collar, pulling him out of the line of fire, but the bullet meant for Damian hits Dick right in the throat. He goes down with a wet gurgle.  

"No!" Red Hood shouts as he reaches for Dick, Damian shoots the Red Douche in the middle of his forehead, but it only leaves a dent in the mask as the force sends the man to the floor. The wannabe crime boss's limping lackey, Arsenal, grabs the unconscious Red Hood and vanishes in a puff of red smoke, like they were just an apparition. Damian is too busy putting pressure on Dick's throat—the stark red staining his burned, pale hands as blood bubbled from Dick's lips like an overflowing caldron.  

Damian calls Tim. The other teen is there in minutes—he must've been watching them again. They put Dick into the car carefully. When they get to Wayne manor, Dick's pulse has slowed down into a near stop as Owlman's private physician works on Dick for too many hours to count.  

When Damian tells his father and Tim what happened, they both watch him with twin expressions of cold indifference. If he didn't know any better, Tim could be his father's real son—they were so much alike.  

Damian is shivering with anxiety in a way he never has before. He never actually cared about anything until Dick and now he wishes he didn't.  

"This is your fault." Tim says. “It should’ve been you.”  

 

* 

Damian spent most of his night staring at the chandelier on the ceiling in his bedroom. It's either too late or too early when Damian gets out of bed. He cracks open his door, peeking out into the long, murky, yellow hallway. Damian's not sure what he's looking for until he ends up at the door of the guest room harboring Dick.  

He presses his ear to the door and listens. There is no noise, not even snores. He wonders if Dick is still in there or if he's dead now. He steels himself and opens the door. The thin of line of the light from the hallway spills onto Dick's still form. Damian slinks in and closes the door.  

He comes to stand near the bed before pulling his undershirt over his head and sending it down to the floor. He gently pulls the cover back and climbs into the too soft bed. He inches toward Dick until his forehead is pressed against Dick's jaw. He curls up against the warm man like he's done so many times before, with his knee hooked with Dick’s. He lays his arm over Dick's bare chest. He feels the cradle rock of Dick's breathing and the sure thump of his heart. He inhales the smell of rust and musk. Dick pushes his hands under Damian until he has his arm around the boy's shoulder, pulling him closer. Damian stills when he realizes Dick is awake but his heart flutters.  

"I'm sorry. Please don’t die." Damian whispers as he brushes his lips against Dick's stubble rough cheek.  It sounds pathetically broken, even in his own ears.  

“I’m not going to die.” Dick’s voice is gritty. "To a lot of people's great disappointment."  

"You saved my life." Damian says. "Why?"  

"Do I need a reason?"  

"I wouldn't have saved yours."  

"I don't believe that."  

"We're soldiers. We're not supposed to-to,"  

"Love each other?"  

"I—What?"  

"You're my little brothers. You and Tim. I'll always care about you guys."  

"Oh." Damian can't stop the acid of disappointment in his stomach, finally realizing he wants more from their relationship. Instead of calling him on it, he just snuggles up as close as he can as silence settles on the room. His eyelids weigh a ton.  

“Red Hood knew my name. He knew about Jay. How?” Dick asks mostly to himself.  

“And the Red Douche has an unnatural fixation on you. What a weirdo.”  

“I felt like I knew him. It’s weird to think—” 

“That he’s Jason Todd? Grayson, that’s just stupid.” 

“I know.” Dick sighs out.  

“He’s dead. He’s was a filthy trader and father did the right thing.”  

“You know what? You should go.” Dick turned away from him, facing the window. Damian’s stomach sinks before he draped his arm around Dick’s waist before placing his chin in the apex where Dick’s neck met his shoulder. His cheek pressed against Dick’s. The man is burning hot.  

The apology sticks on Damian’s tongue. He’s just not used to being sorry for anything, even though he is.  

“You witnessed his death, Dick.”  

“…I didn’t.”  

“What?” 

“I held his body, but I didn’t watch him die. I attacked Owlman to save him, but I was too late. I buried him myself.” 

“Then you know he’s dead.”  

“I need to see it.”  

“See what?”  

“The grave.” Dick sits up and Damian steadies him. “I’m going to need your help.” 

“Anything.” Damian says.  

Dick ruffles Damian’s hair before getting out of bed. He flinches in pain while changing into a black V-neck and jeans. Damian can’t take his eyes off the show of the man getting dressed before getting out of bed himself. Before he knew it, Dick had dressed him in a too big “R.E.M.” shirt and Tim’s old jeans.  

They get into Dick’s beat-up Dodge Charger under the shadow drenched night.  

They drive until the sun breaks through the cloud and paints the sky with pinks and golds. They reach the fresh, dew studded, green, rolling hills of the country side and drive on until they reach a wooden, two-bedroom shack. They park on the side of the thin, dirt road before going behind the building.   

The green leaves of the great oak are tarnished with rust as summer dies around them. There is a large, soggy, mound of dirt at the foot of the tree—an anonymous grave with no marker. It’s sprinkled with green grass and bright summer flowers whose petals are pearled with dew.  

Dick kneels on the right side of the grave and digs with his bare hands. Damian goes to the other side and mimics Dick. The world goes gold around them as the day wakes. They scoop up bits of grass, worms, and seeds until pale knuckles stick out of the black earth like a white rose.  

Dick obviously doesn’t see it because he still digs, carefully, as if not to disturb someone sleeping. Damian’s stomach sinks at the look of naïve hope on the Talon’s face.  

Damian crawls around the grave until he’s shoulder to shoulder with Dick. He places his hand over Dick’s to stop him from digging. He points his finger at the hand sticking out of the earth. “Dick, look.”  

Dick stills for a solid minute before bursting out laughing, scaring sleeping doves. It’s a broken sound that makes Damian’s heart beat to the speed of a hummingbird. There’s a tempest in his stomach as a thousand things he wants to say to Dick sticks on his tongue. None of them are what the man needs to hear right now, so he stays quiet, for once. Dick’s dirt baptized hands press into his eyes to hide his tears.  

Damian draws Dick near like Dick does to him when he’s sad and places his chin on the man’s head, while Dick’s tears wet the front of his shirt. Dick twists his fingers in the hem of Damian’s shirt while Damian wraps his arms around the Talon’s shoulders.  

After a few minutes, Dick pulls back to stare into Damian’s eyes, his beautiful face marred by streaks of dirt, his eyes shiny. “Is it weird that I wanted it to be him? Even though he’d hate my guts if he were somehow alive? I mean, I stole him when he was a child and... let Owlman...I don’t know.”  

 “It’s not weird. You loved him.” Damian tries not to be jealous of a dead body.  

“I love you too. You’re my brother.”  

Damian sucks in a deep breath before cupping both sides of Dick’s face in his hands. He rubs his thumb against the man’s spit slick lips as Dick watches him like he’s the most important thing in the world—like no one else ever has. He grew up thinking he was just a tool to be used, but Dick has shown him differently—that he has value more than his ability to kill.  

Damian clenches his eyes shut before clumsily bumping his lips against Dick’s. Dick stills as Damian swipes his tongue against Dick’s salty, gated mouth, asking for entrance but the Talon doesn’t budge an inch. Damian’s stomach flutters as sweat springs on his face.  

Damian pulls back when his lungs scream for air, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He could feel the weight of Dick’s stare until the man stands. Dick combs his fingers through Damian’s hair before he takes Damian’s hand and helps him up.  

Damian has razor blades in his stomach and a desert in his mouth. Dick placed his hand on the back of Damian’s head and led him forward until Damian’s face is pressed into Dick’s chest. The man combs his fingers through his hair, sending tingles down Damian’s spine.  

“Let’s get in the car.” Dick says. He gets in the driver’s seat while Damian goes around and gets in the other. “Put on your seatbelt.”  

The drive back is quiet. Damian’s disappointed. He doesn’t know what he was expecting. He leaned his chair back and put his feet on the dash, watching the world sliding past, the silent green subsides to black skyscrapers and city noise. They pull up to Wayne Manor just as Tim is walking into the garage. He’s wearing his dorky, burgundy, prep school uniform and sporting a bitching shiner—Damian hopes he gave it to him in their last training session.  

“Good morning.” Drake says mechanically as they exited the car.  

“Hey.” Dick grits out.  

“Drake.” Damian says. The imposter should be lucky Damian speaks to him at all.  

Tim watches him with his usual blank expression, though his eyes shine with an unusual curiosity.  

“Where did you go?” Drake asks.  

“None of your—” 

“I was talking to Dick.” His flat voice never changes, but there was something harsh in it.  

“And  _I_  was saying it was none of your business.” Damian says.  

“Ladies, ladies, please.” Dick says as he moves past them both and enters the kitchen. It’s weird that just a little while ago Dick was sobbing into his shirt. Now he’s walking around like everything’s fine. Like they didn’t kiss.  

“Whatever.” Damian says as he pushes past Drake. Drake frowns before continuing his path to school while Dick sits at the end of the kitchen table. Damian takes one look back at him before heading out the kitchen and going to his room. He burrows himself under the covers to stave off the coldness of the air conditioner and the world all together.  

He doesn’t understand Dick’s actions. It’s not like he expected the Talon to let him fuck him over the traitor’s grave or anything—but he had expected some sort of reaction, a positive one. Why has Dick always been so nice to him if he doesn’t return his feelings? A little voice inside Damian says Dick is not like anyone he’s never met, Dick’s not the type of person to do things just because he wants something in return, unlike the other people in Damian’s life. 

Dick must think he’s too young, since the Talon is twenty-eight and Damian is twelve. The Talon’s obviously isn’t like father, if the stories about Owlman and Jason are to be believed. 

Damian isn’t too young, and he doesn’t want sex—at least not yet—from Grayson. He wants hand holding, listening to music together in cars, movies, cuddling, all the things they are already doing, plus the sensation of lips on his.  

How can he show Dick he’s mature enough for him? Maybe if he brings the Talon Red Hood’s head, it’ll show him how much of an adult he is, and how much he cares. It’ll be like killing two birds with one stone, since he’ll make the Red Hood pay for fucking with Dick’s head.  

But where to start looking for that weirdo? Ugh, Damian groans when it hits him as he takes the blankets off his head and stares at the ceiling. There is one other person who is almost as good as a detective as his father—Timothy Fucking Drake.  

He wakes up when the red numbers of the clock read 4:30PM. He rubs the sleep from his eyes before pulling on his armor. He marches down the hallway. Tim’s door is in a crack. He kicks it open.  

Tim is sitting in an office chair near his computer, reading an instruction manual of some kind. He’s wearing a loose, black Nirvana shirt with a yellow, sickly looking smiley face on it, plaid red and white boxers, and too white socks crushed around his ankles. His wet, black hair cups his chin as his dull, but somehow stark, blue eyes watches Damian without emotion. His skin is pale like he’s allergic to the sun, and with the red smudges under his eyes, sleep too.  

The fifteen-year-old is handsome, Damian admits to himself, since he’s being honest about his attraction to men. Grayson, apparently, is a gateway drug.  

“Drake. You could finally be of use to me.” 

“Oh, goodie.” Tim drones, as he closes his book, keeping his place with his thumb. “I can’t wait to hear this.”  

“I need to find Red Hood and you can help with that.”  

“I can. But why should I?”  

“Because I’m helping Dick, you tool.”  

“Why?”  

“Because I love him.” Damian says before he realizes it. He doesn’t mean to, but there is a certain freedom in saying it aloud. A weight is lifted off his chest as he realizes he’d loved the Talon since they started training together.  

Tim’s fingers claw around the chair’s arm before relaxing. His bored expression never changes. Damian doesn’t know what to make of that.   

“Fine.” Tim says as he stands. 

“Really? Just like that?”  

“Yes. Fine.” 

“Good. Where do we start?”  

“The man Red Hood was with. Arsenal. I know it’s Roy Harper.” 

“Am I supposed to know who that is?”  

“You must really love the sound of your own voice, since you never let me finish.” Tim says. “He’s just some junkie Dick used with once upon a time, before we got here. Why he’s helping Red Hood is a mystery.”  

“I don’t care why. I’m just in it to kill the Red Douche.”  

“Clever.”  

“What’s our next move?”   

“Meet me in the garage at 2000 hours. In full uniform—but it looks like you already have that covered. I’ve worked out where Arsenal lives now. Before you came, I was going to tell Owlman, but we’ll go together first. We’ll watch Harper until he goes to Red Hood stronghold. After that, we’ll slit everyone’s throat until we get to the Red Hood.”  

“Brash. That’s a surprise for you, Drake.”  

“I’m full of surprises.”  

Tim's uniform is gunmetal grey and bulky, the cape made of lightweight, steel feathers covering his entire body, making his terribly skinny, 5’5 frame imposing.  He wore goggles like Owlman, except instead of being round, they were a wide cat eye in which Damian could see himself in the reflection. He has steel toe boots and his gauntlets has silver, retractable claws. His weapon of choice is a long staff with a Taser at one end and a razor-sharp blade at the other. 

Drake never wanted to be Talon. He was always Nighthawk, a space he violently craved out for himself.  

Drake doesn’t say anything when Damian deposits a fuck ton of guns in the trunk of Tim’s jet black, oil slick shiny, 2002 Chevrolet Corvette. He gets in the passenger seat as Tim gets in the drivers. The fifteen-year-old wasn’t legally allowed to drive yet, but Dick must’ve taught him anyway. Growing up is accelerated under Owlman’s tutelage.  

Drake races the car along the twirling roads leading into the city at ninety miles per hour, sharply, through the maw dark night, with only the yellow eyes of the car and the white strikes on the road to guide by.  

Damian crosses his arm and puts his feet on the dash.    
 

“Get your feet off there.” Drake says. The only time he’s spoken to him in twenty minutes. Damian rights himself and reaches toward the radio to end the yawning quiet. Dick always played throwback music in his car—the Talon is stuck in the early nineties, obviously not ready to come into their year of 2002. Drake slaps his hand away before he could touch the dial. Damian wants to dislocate ‘Nighthawk’s’ jaw for touching him but making them crash on a slick mountain road would be a bit of an overreaction.  

When they get into the city of shadows, Tim parks in a tight alleyway and puts on the cloaking device. They travel up several fire escapes until they get to a flat roof across from a shady motel. Damian sets up his rifle. He could see Harper through the viewfinder, spread across the thin bare mattress and naked to his pubic line. His red curtain of hair was messy, as if he’d been sleeping as he stared at nothing on the ceiling, until he pulls out his cellphone. The room was bright yellow, but the alien blue glow of the dead television screen played on his pale skin.  

“So, what? We just wait?” Damian asks, not taking his eyes off the man in the room.  

“Yes. Until Red Hood shows, or Roy Harper leaves. Then we follow him.”  

“You’re not very good at this.” 

“You never asked why we had to go tonight.”  

“I don’t care.”  

“You should. I’ve studied Red Hood’s patterns, tonight should be another attack of your father’s businesses.”  

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Damian takes his eyes off the viewfinder to watch Tim studying the side of his face.  

“What?”  

“You really do look like him.”  _Owlman_  goes unsaid. “Too bad you don’t act like him.”  

Damian carefully doesn’t say he’s glad he doesn’t. Being around Dick made him realize his father had serious issues with control, power, abuse, and other not so good things. He doesn’t say maybe, just _maybe_ , there is another way in life, one that doesn’t involve death.  

He doesn’t say he’s been fantasizing about running away from it all with Dick and going to school like a normal child. Damian very carefully doesn’t say he wants to be a Grayson, rather than a Wayne.  

Damian looks back at the viewfinder to find Harper gone. He only panics a little until the man comes back into view, wearing the same dark red suit and trucker hat. He obviously has no qualms about getting on his motorcycle in the middle of the crowded parking lot of the motel while in full costume.  

Drake had assembled his sniper rifle and shoots a tracking device on the rim of Harper’s bike with surgical precision. Drake’s electric compass blinks on, showing a red dot racing north at the speed of light.  

They get to Drake’s car and speed off after it, maintaining a comfortable distance until they get to an old, decaying warehouse. Harper’s bike is nowhere to be found, but there is motion in the forgotten building. The red dot had stopped in there.  

They park around the corner and enter the building through a broken window, landing on the cat walks a dozen feet above the concrete floor. Harper is nowhere to be found. In his stead, there’s giant, crudely spray-painted, red words: “Nice try, kiddies,” with their tracking device dotting the sentence. 

Damian groans in frustration before jumping down. Tim follows him and they both land in front of the still wet paint. Harper had seen them, somehow. Quick bastard.  

“He must’ve had cameras surrounding the motel. He’s smarter than I thought.” Tim says flatly as he touches the paint and rubs it between his fingers. Damian checks for explosions in the small space—the only thing there was a grey, cafeteria table with a wooden crate on it, holding a singular Ingram MAC-10, endowed with a silencer. Tim picks the gun up and inspects it  

“I wanted one of these for Christmas.” Tim says.  

“What do we do now?” Damian asks, watching himself in Tim’s goggles. The teen puts on a smile. It looks unnatural on him.  

Damian didn’t feel the bullet dig into his gut, until he did. It was like someone lit a fire in his stomach. He placed his hand over the hole in his abdomen and pulled back to see his fingers are sticky with blood—Drake shot him. Warm, thick liquid drips from his mouth as he stumbles back until he trips down and bangs his head on the concrete, staring up at the cat walks as real fear gripped him for the first time. He places his hand on his stomach as if he could plug the hole in his abdomen. 

Tim entered his flickering view, obviously deciding if he were going to shoot Damian again. He knelt as if he were praying over him as Damian’s sight goes in and out. In Tim’s goggles, Damian saw the stark red blood dripping from his mouth.  

“I love Dick too.” Tim says, his voice sounds like it was underwater as Damian tries to stay conscious. His breath becomes elusive and he chokes on a mouthful of his own blood. It felt like his lungs were on fire. Tim gives him another smile and cups his cheek before pulling out his communicator. 

He stands and turns his back to Damian. Damian’s voice was stuck in his throat like a lump as he fades in and out. “Talon? This is Nighthawk. Red Hood has shot Damian. Get down here quickly. I’ll send you the coordinates.”  

All Damian could do was let out a wet gurgle in protest as Drake pulled up his goggles, his eyes are the color of a vast ocean and just as indifferent. “I tolerate no rivals.”  

 

 

 

   
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I wrote this when I was way younger (so it's not as poetic as I would like it) and I just found it in my one drive files along with a lot of other chapters for this series so get ready for some unedited nonsense. I know I'm posting this for sentimental reasons so thanks for bearing with me.  
> 2) Beta'd by no one because I'm only the lonely here and don't want to bother anyone.  
> 3) Let me know what you think!


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